


little lord

by wilyasha



Category: The Inheritance Trilogy - N. K. Jemisin
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilyasha/pseuds/wilyasha
Summary: It is months before young T'vril is sent off to Sky, and a little boy shows up in his room.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to hell for writing this; I feel it in my bones. And sorry Jemisin, I just have a lot of unresolved feelings about these two.
> 
> Also, most of the tags have to do with T'vril's mother.

Li’ari watches her sweet boy, tender and warm, cradled in her arms. A tuft of red hair blooms from his forehead, striking against his pale skin like a knife wound. He shares her red hair, her fairness, the dusting of freckles across her nose. His light eyes blink lazily as he sucks his thumb. He’s perfect. 

“They’re executing him,” her mother says from the doorway. 

Li’ari doesn’t turn to her. Her boy with the sweet dimples and gentle smile keeps her focused.

“Did you hear me?” The noble’s wife asks. “They’re executing him.”

Li’ari presses a clean kiss against the baby’s forehead before placing him in his cradle. 

“The Arameri are killing one of their own,” her mother continues, “for us. You know what this means, correct?”

This is the punishment for defiling a child, for raping a fourteen year old girl. Death. 

“And what do they want in exchange, Mother?” Li’ari inquires, her hands gripping the edge of the cradle, frilly with imported fabrics. 

Her mother is silent for a moment and Li’ari already knows.

“They want him,” the noble’s wife says. “They want T’vril. They wish to foster him as--”

“As a servant!” Li’ari cries, and it’s forgotten that Li’ari’s still only a child, force-ripen and thorny. 

“He’s safer under the gaze of--”

“He’s safer with me!” Her shouting startles T’vril from his half-sleep, as he whimpers and raises his fists, blinking blearily at his young mother.

“Li’ari, you are a child. A child having a child. That is not what Bright--”

“How long do I have with him?” Li’ari asks her mother. “How long do I have my boy?”

“Dekarta Arameri will claim him at the age of six.”

Her mother’s words burn in her belly, empty without T’vril nestled within her.

-

T’vril watches a ship slowly sail into the bay. The blue water shining bright under the sun. There’s the low squawking of birds farther out, but T’vril cranes his head out the window, squinting just to see the white birds soar through the sky. He wonders, for a moment, how it must feel: the warm delightful air caressing his wings, keeping him aloft as he careens down towards the expansive sea, only to tilt and rise back up. T’vril imagines he would be a red bird, brilliant against the sky and always watching the mortals below.

The boy sighs, moving away from the window to settle back in the adjacent chair and return to his mathematics. His tutoring is going well and he excels at such a young age. Five years old and reading three languages (although he has trouble speaking one of them), meticulous in his problem solving skills, and confident in his presentation. T’vril is a precocious child, so clever and quick and reserved. His mother admires him for that, keeps him tucked close when he’s not off reading a book or playing in the gardens with the other children. 

T’vril is so engrossed in his tutor work that he barely registers the scent of berries and his belly gurgles hungrily. 

“Do you want to play?” says a voice behind him.

T’vril whips his head around, startled by the intruder, only to be met by a small boy. He’s a few years older than him with curly dark hair and smooth brown skin. His eyes are sharp and only a shade lighter than T’vril’s own color. A foreigner? In his home?

“I’m studying,” T’vril says, flatly. 

“So? Don’t you study all the time?” The boy shrugs as if he’s answering his own question.

T’vril narrows his eyes with distaste. “You don’t belong to this household. Where are your parents?”

The boy laughs aloud, a sweet sound like wind chimes.

“You really don’t know who I am?” The boy questions once more.

T’vril shakes his head, his hands coming up nervously to yank on his short red braid.

The boy follows the motion, grinning like a cat.

“Well, I’m Sieh of course,” and then he lets out a laugh again, louder than before and slightly deeper.

It takes T’vril a moment to realize who the child is (a godling), and another moment to come to terms with the fact that the godling of childhood is in his bedroom. A grin plastered across his face.

Suddenly, T’vril slips off his chair to stand in front of Sieh. 

“Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in Sky?” T’vril’s inquiry is thoughtful, so he doesn’t understand the dark look Sieh forms on his face, vicious and cruel.

“The Arameri believe reparations are still in order after that _disaster_ and they sent me to quell some Ken loins,” Sieh says, his tone too adult-like to belong to any child. 

T’vril suspects that the disaster Sieh speaks of is the same one that pertains to his dead father, the father his mother never speaks of, the father that his grandfather curses during T’vril’s birthday. T’vril chews on his lower lip, pulling at his braid once more.

“Sorry,” he says to Sieh. 

The room is quiet. When he looks up at Sieh, the boy has a worried look on his face, eyebrows furrowed together as he regards T’vril with curiosity. 

“What for?” Sieh asks, finally. “It wasn’t your fault.”

T’vril looks down at the floor, heart beating heavy beneath his chest, his eyes as wide as flat stones found at the shore. He hears what sympathetic remarks the servants say in the kitchen about his tender mother, how his aged grandfather talks about the Arameri, and his poor grandmother caught in between. It is only his mother that truly treats him with the respect and affection he needs. 

But here comes the godling of mischief and childhood, saying it isn’t his fault. He nearly sags with relief.

When he looks back up, Sieh is gone.

-

The trickster returns at the end of the week. T’vril is gazing out the window once more when Sieh squeals behind him, grabbing him around his waist to tickle his abdomen. T’vril shrieks with boyish delight, lurching away from the window and back into Sieh’s arms. 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks, bewildered, just as the two boys catch their breath.

Sieh laughs, “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You could have thrown me out the window,” T’vril remarks, pulling away from the godling. 

“Oh, I’m very sorry, Lord T’vril,” he says, grinning. “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m not a lord,” the red haired boy replies. “I won’t ever be a lord.” He knows what his fate is when he turns six. He’ll work in the palace where his dead father used to live. But unlike his father, he won’t be swathed in the finest fabrics and bathed with the sugary soaps. He doesn’t mind. He’d rather be unnoticed than tangled in whatever scandal the Arameri have started with another nation. 

Sieh cocks his head to the side, watching T’vril intently. All previous smiles have melted away. 

“What happens when you turn six?” 

T’vril flushes, realizing he spoke that part aloud, his inner thoughts revealed to the godling. 

“I will be sent to Sky,” he says, yanking on his braid and playing with the loose red strands.

Sieh’s eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows raised. “To be fostered by Dekarta?”

“No,” T’vril answers after a pause. “The servants will take over raising me.” 

Sieh’s blinks, owlish and uncertain, as if he’s trying to piece together the puzzle pieces T’vril’s provided. There’s a hot breeze in the air now, and T’vril sits in his chair, small hand rubbing against the imported wooden desk. His tutoring books are stacked neatly in the corner and there is a fresh scroll in the middle. However, there are no writing utensils or bottles of ink. T’vril’s hand plays with the edge of the scroll, tearing off a piece to roll into a ball between his fingers. 

The godling’s next words strike T’vril to his core. 

“You’ll always be my little lord.”

T’vril looks up and over to the empty space that Sieh occupied. He’s gone again, disappearing and leaving a gaping void in his wake. 

But the words echo, stellar in T’vril’s ears: _my little lord, my little lord, little lord._

-

Later that night while resting in bed, T’vril reads a book filled with short poems and cherubic illustrations. A cup of steaming tea sits on his side table, smelling of blooming flowers and citrus. A gentle knock at his door and then his mother comes in like a thin whisper shrouded in a silky night robe. Her red hair is braided back, like wisps haloing the crown of her head. 

“Hi Mama,” he says, closing his book and placing it on his nightstand. He jostles the cup of tea, but Li’ari catches it before it can fall.

“And hi to you, my sweet boy,” she says and then asks: “Would you like your tea?”

T’vril shakes his head. 

“It’s too hot,” he says.

His mother nods knowingly. There’s a tightness set in her lips, her cheeks flushed pink. Anxiety washes over T’vril. He knows his mother must have something to say to him. It’s too earlier in the evening for her good night kisses. He feels his mouth run dry and suddenly he wants a sip of that tea. 

Li’ari’s hand plays with the cup, idly thumbing at the handle. 

“Sweet boy, you know I love you, right?” she asks.

T’vril feels his heart drop to his belly. He remembers how angry his grandfather was throughout his life. Never at him really, but at the Arameri. 

“Mama…?” he whispers, noticing for the first time that she hasn’t even sat down at the edge of his bed. She’s still standing, hand gripping the tea cup, cheeks pink, green eyes wet with unshed tears. His belly clenches. “Mama… I don’t under--”

“T’vril,” she says, halting him mid-sentence. “T’vril, they want you sooner. They don’t want to wait a year.”

His blood runs cold, gripping and tight across his thin chest. His hands, clenching rhythmically, are clammy with sweat. Out of the corner of his right eye, he sees a shadow slip around his wardrobe. 

He will not cry. He cannot. Not in front of his sweet mother, who is already weeping, hiccuping into her hands.

“I’m sorry, T’vril,” she says, turning away to run out of his room. She’s not shrieking, but he can hear her gut-wrenching sobs until there is a great distance between them. 

“She’s only a child,” Sieh says from behind the wardrobe. 

T’vril takes a shaky breath. “I know.” 

Slowly, Sieh sits on T’vril’s bed, crawling beneath the bedsheets. It only takes a moment for T’vril to break, for his tears to salt his cheeks, for him to sink into the overstuffed mattress. He feels Sieh wrap his warm brown arms around him, smelling like berries and magic and he melts into the embrace. His hot tears dampen the front of Sieh’s beige tunic. The godling of childhood smooths back T’vril’s red hair, just like his mother does it. 

T’vril cries until his chest hurts. He’s shaking, cold and sad. Sieh stretches, reaching over to the side table for a folded and cleanly pressed handkerchief. He opens it, wiping it down T’vril’s face until it’s dry. His eyes are still watery, but he feels better, empty and drained off those emotions. 

“It will be okay,” Sieh says, finally. T’vril looks up at him. His brows are furrowed with worry and his slightly chubby cheeks are flushed. “I won’t lie and say you will be treated well. But,” he pauses, “you will be okay while I’m around.” 

T’vril falls asleep beside Sieh and the godling watches the soft rise and fall of his chest. 

-

T’vril doesn’t see his mother the next day, or the following. He doesn’t see her for a few days, and then the days turn to weeks. Every time the boy ventures near his mother’s room, his tutor or the servants are always there to lead him away. On the start of the third week, it’s his grandfather who speaks to him. 

“She’s sick,” he says. “You cannot see her.” He says the words, simple and strained, and leaves T’vril standing in the hallway. The sunlight filters through the window, casting warmth across the floor. T’vril stares at the light, narrowing his eyes. 

Why would Itempas do this to his mother? Why would He make her suffer so much? Ignoring his grandfather, he sneaks past one of the servants scrubbing the tile floors and up the back staircase to the family members’ rooms. He finds Sieh on the landing, leaning against the wall, sunlight haloing his hair. 

“Up to some mischief?” Sieh asks. 

T’vril blushes, looking away for a moment because his friend looks pretty in Itempas’ light. His beige tunic is clean and cinched at the waist. His curly hair looks soft and fluffy; his sharp green eyes stand out against his brown skin.

“I’m going to see my mother,” says T’vril. “Do you want to come with?” 

Sieh cocks his head to the side, smiling. “I’ll have to go soon, back to Sky,” he says, “but I can go on one last adventure with you.”

Last adventure? What does he mean last adventure? 

“You won’t be coming back?” he asks, frowning. 

“The Arameri have ordered me back,” he says, moving close to grab T’vril’s hand. A rude person would have mentioned that T’vril would be in Sky soon, too.

Sieh pulls him in the direction of his mother’s room. They find her in bed, resting, catatonic. She stares up at the sheer bed canopy. Eyes open. Unblinking. Her mouth agape, gasping softly. 

T’vril wants to cry, but he feels Sieh’s hand clench around his in sympathy. 

-

Sieh’s gone. The escort will arrive in a few days and T’vril’s mother hasn’t gotten better. Sometimes he wanders back to her room to rest beside her. He curls against her, pressing a hand to her chest, and whimpers. She smells clean, like soap and fresh bread. The servants must wipe her down and feed her warm broth when they can manage it. He wishes she was better again. That she wasn’t scared of losing him because he’ll be gone soon and he needs her. 

The day before the carriage arrives, Li’ari manages to get out of bed. He finds her sitting in the gardens behind their home. She’s dressed in a fresh night robe. She doesn’t even look at him, just beckons him closer with an open palm. 

“I’m sorry, sweet boy,” she says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

T’vril is five years old and has to comfort his mother. A nineteen year old girl forced to ripen too early.

“It’s okay, Mama. I’ll make friends,” he says, thinking about the small godling that has kept him company for the past weeks. 

“But you will remember,” she says, startling him from his reverie, “you will always be mine. You are my son and I love you.”

T’vril looks over at his mother and she’s finally watching him. She isn’t smiling or crying. And for a moment, T’vril allows himself to be the child in their dynamic. 

“Do you understand, T’vril?” she asks. 

He nods, “Yes, Mama. I understand.” 

The next day, the escort arrives, a carriage parked in front of their gate. He and the driver busy themselves securing T'vril's small trunk of clothes and books, before seeking rations. They return to the carriage once the horses are properly watered and rested. By midday, they are ready to leave.

T’vril doesn’t look at his grandparents, but he can feel their guilty eyes on him. He hugs his mother, crying silently into her skirts. She holds him tight. 

“Stay strong, my sweet boy,” she says, kissing his forehead. 

“I love you, Mama,” he says quietly, not even loud enough for her to hear. 

“We must go,” says the escort. 

T’vril takes a deep breath, before climbing into the carriage. The curtained door slams shut behind him and the escort goes to sit in the front alongside the driver. Suddenly, T’vril is hit with the scent of berries, sweet and sharp, tickling his nose. 

Sieh sits cross-legged, a smile on his face, playing with a small softly glowing orb. He puts the orb away, it disappearing with a twist of his hand. Sieh then crawls his way to T’vril’s bench and pulls him into his warm arms. The godling smooths T’vril’s braided hair back.

“It’s okay, little lord. I’m here,” he says as the carriage rocks forward and they begin their journey to Sky. 

And for a brief moment, T’vril believes him.


End file.
